"untiringly" poems
Eating mushrooms, to her is yet another art
she loves to perfect, in my ear she whispers
with such visible pleasure,"I want to be a connoisseur in this"
Her studio smelled herbs and wild flowers of inner forest,
brought me back to the cardamom and cinnamon garden
I played in my days of boyhood; spices build a bridge for us.
More of a herbalist than a paint smelling artist, she seems,
mounted on the wall on irregular fashion were the mushrooms
she painted with a passion rare, and a precision mirroring life;
the paintings brought her past in to the studio, only trained eyes
would discern the cryptic symbolism, a consummate artist she certainly is!
The woman who smoked cigars in succession and untiringly danced,
she said was her favorite, along the lake front we took a long walk
comparing notes; there were parallels that met, we found soon enough.
"You too knew her so well, I am aware", she said. A room filled with smoke
where we dance, make love, grow tired, fall down and sleep, wasn't it our life?
No one can miss the signature smell of her dense cigar smoke on my dress!"
I loved the smell of cloves she exhaled while eating mushrooms.
though detachment she pretended, eating mushrooms never was that!
I kept looking down at her eyes, a sailor about to sight the land,
any panting moment that rushes with a monsoon song for me and her.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
Clearly observing the wicked danger lurking within you…
What a paradox to witness a change of benevolence ridiculed by your truth.
If only you understood what it takes to genuinely smile,
You could move mountains across those magnificent cerulean skies.
Even after our unpleasant confrontations, so cruel and wry.
You deliberately chose to dance around to a distinctive rhyme.
Using your words of trickery, resembling a serpent hissing fear.
You untiringly strived to strike fatal arrows through an artificial crack on my fortified shield.
I gave you only one chance to earn my professional trust.
Then you destroyed it with mendacities absconding from your Machiavellian filthy mouth.
Candidly, after foreseeing your vile pestilence emerging from within.
I erupted in an outburst of laughter to have ever believed in your skin of sin.
Beware, you have revealed an irrevocable glitch that is deceitfully sly.
It portrays tyranny and narrow mindedness, depreciating with every malicious try.
Running cunningly through your veins oozing massive animosity in disguise.
Have you not scrutinized the gruesome language intensely stimulated from your heinously gazing eyes?
By: Michael M. De La Fuente
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
•
*
Heart beats aloud with gaiety,
The wonderful euphony of my love.
With this soul dance in exuberance,
Untiringly rejoicing in elevated exhilaration.
Saccharine love hoisting in daily celebration,
Pulling each other closer to this taste of celestial paradise.
Unending love tied in indestructible bond,
Soaring high in ethereal realms.
God's spreading wings enfold the both of us,
Our refuge to this eternal love assurance.
Heavenly blessings lavish us from above,
Tight protection to this purified love.
Two hearts sealed, combined as one,
Together, forever in everlasting bliss.
*
**with love <3 **
© Earl Jane
♥ E.J.C.S.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
In Rājagaha the Well-Farer lectured
On wisdom, concentration, morality…
The monks listened, devoutly, calmly,
To the message replete with practicality.
On to Ambaliṭṭikā they journeyed,
To Nālandā and Pāṭaligāma as well.
The Buddha continued to spread the Dhamma--
Or teachings--at which he was known to excel.
After passing over the Ganges,
To Koṭigāma they made their way.
The Buddha repeated the Four Noble Truths
That still guide many people today.
At Nādikā the Teacher referred to the Mirror
Of Dhamma and said to always begin
By looking first at yourself to discover
The truth that lies deep within.
On to Vesālī the ascetics wandered,
Where their Master continued to share
The power and value of mindful living--
The importance of being clearly aware.
During the rains the Awakened One rested
In Beluva, where he postponed his trek.
While staying there he grew ill, but he knew
It was NOT his time, so it kept it in check.
"Live as islands," he said to Ānanda,
"With truth as a refuge. And grasp not, for I
Have always told you that all things dear to us--
Whatever is born--eventually will die."
After the rains, the group traveled
To the Great Forest--to the Gabled Hall,
And the Buddha repeated the Eightfold Path--
A message of wisdom pertaining to all.
Bhoganagara was their next stop,
And then to Pāvā the wayfarers did go.
Their host, Cunda, served "pig's delight."
The Buddha grew ill. Why? We don't know.
Despite his illness, he continued
To Kusinārā and lay down to rest.
Music sounded and flowers fell
From the sky to honor the One-Who-Is-Blessed.
"The Dhamma will now be your teacher.
Strive on untiringly. My time has passed."
After entering deep concentration
The Great One died. Those words were his last.
Thunder sounded and the ground shook--
As it does when any great teacher "goes to sleep."
The Buddha is Dhamma; the Dhamma is the Buddha.
Because of that there's no reason to weep.
The compassionate Buddha's Teachings have spread
For over two thousand five hundred years.
His Message of living in wisdom and compassion
And loving mindfulness perseveres.
- by Bob B
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
Fire is in his eyes, in the pit of his belly and *****
a fire ball he is, zooming through the sky of desire,
the longing for her transforms in to a roaring fire
within him, it untiringly rages, slowly gets sublime
It warmed him, blood coursed in force through
the veins like a river full of molten lava, with a mind,
he was blazing his trail, with accelerating creative urge
lovers of beauty saw him as a firefly of high skies
brightening vast expanses of inner sky, like none else did
she was the serendipitous spark lighted him thus
the fuel that propels, the 'anima' behind his phenomenal drive
He was burning to find a moment to commemorate,
this fire, his desire for her, not a bit less even after all these years
unexpectedly she appears, at the moment that thought occurred,
she smiled, it's radiance fell in to his psyche, froze as a golden idol,
Wasn't it what he desired? She getting etched as the spirit of a smile!
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
A lens crazy guy he clicks at fast pace
At all leisurely moment, available recess,
Faces, landscapes, each fragment of life
Untiringly imaging his children and wife.
At home, when away, his eyes are on the look
For hunting out objects from the darkest nook
He freezes everything nothing escapes his lens
Sunlight and shadows and season’s first rains.
Years roll by his bag of catch brims full
He clicks away in passion with one simple rule
That none of his shots should ever include him
Only preserve in its frame each passing dream.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 3:07 AM UTC
*Make for me the day
That I'd remember you,
I will tread on the Earth you love.
I'll blame no cloud nor season.
I will be staring at the leaning grasses
Of the Archipelago. I will be calm.
Make me not turn to you,
If you are to approach me
From behind, surprisingly,
Locking your tiny hands on my eyes,
Asking me of who you are,
Because in that moment,
That moment only,
Will I truly dream.
And seeing you
Might make me want to kiss you.
Do it so, stealthily, then
Walk away from me. Run. Leave me.
Send off your goodbye, as though
It was your loving touch
That I may live on
Like an ill-fated Sun,
Missing, always missing,
Its cold half,
As I untiringly wander,
Wonder, remember,
Answer
Why my feet
Can't be across from yours.*
© 2011 J.S.P.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:09 PM UTC
"Stop dangerously playing at philosophy
Stop acting like you have what it takes to be scholarly
You can't even speak properly
You untiringly, and sloppily, try to come up with snobbery
Your diabolical propensity, this fakery
Is just an attempt to associate yourself with roguery
You should put on the masquerade of frivolity
Be all gossipy. Try being frisky. For once, become the life of a party
So that you fit in nicely. Because that's the body's main vitality
Sincerely,
Society "
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:49 AM UTC
These poems are always born colourful.
Pointy and symmetrical, they are life, crafted
Specially for schools that have no bell-rings
Or even recesses. How dull it must be.
They come in different morals: steaming ships
And inexperienced rafts, all trying to taste the
Same water at once. The ships do have an advantage
With big chimneys but it’s the rafts that are more careful.
And how kaleidoscopically they flaunt themselves!
Angels are always with their kin (how saintly), and tigers proudly
Race with their predation pride. The normal ones
Adapt normally, till the gold one comes oval-gaping for air.
It is almost operatic, the bullion fatly singing
A joyful soprano that spirals its corpulent body,
Indelibly marking its forte and making
Everyone else envious. The rest soon join in the orchestra.
Colloid-free, their airy world so thin and wet, the
Little air bubbles drop, drop, drop as clock-like as possible
To balloon and reign the surface. The water’s
Fully bloomed now. They are ready to breathe.
Doctor’s miracles, they are born with unblinking eyes.
Their skin flat and overlapped like thin slices of birdfeathers
And wide bloodless cuts run at each cheek. They defy
Physics with their aerodynamic bodies and a thousand striped hands.
Every nook and cranny of their house is carpentered accurately:
Mirror-rimmed and exact. Windows glued for viewing, flawless.
The tenants move about freely, occasionally pausing to wave
At the guests through the translucent eye pieces.
Untiringly they follow the irises that gawk at their gill-full skins.
The cameras icily smile flashes and these water-gods snap away
Like graceful thunders. Their scissor-tails dance from side to side, panicky,
With only three precious seconds added to their memory.
Shalini Nayar
© 2002
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:40 AM UTC
I am a beggar who is bound to praise and request
Who is untiringly, relentlessly opts for his quest
I don't hide myself whatever I am that I manifest
Against my well wishers I just never ever protest
Being beggar of beauty when I ask for the charity
My beloved being blunt never ever show solidarity
Even if there is no one like her in the town or city
But she refuses to be my beloved with more clarity
When I want to see her she becomes seriously blunt
Being full with tricks she remains ever ready for stunt
Since I am claimant of her so I just bear the real brunt
At times being nasty it seems that she is devil's agent
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
Infancy talked to me various languages, switching
Tonalities for different melodies, to be learnt.
Naturally acquiring the discernment, recognising
Faces and voices to choose applicable native tongues.
English with my father, whose name echoed as Plato,
Iranian with my mother, Italian with my siblings, French
With school teachers, Greek on summer holidays.
Growing up my hair and accents, led to the inevitable
Repetitive question, ‘Where are you from?’
Timidly answered as it was hard to comprehend, until I set
Myself to do so untiringly drafting precious family trees.
Investigations interrogating relatives to exhaustion,
Ignited my pride for every single drop of blood,
Composing me and drawing borders
On geographical maps delineating my essence.
My story was one of many, they labelled me a multi-ethnic,
For my daddy’s naissance in Accra from a mulatto beauty
Queen, daughter of a British doctor and his Ghanaian lady friend.
For her husband, his Hellenic pater, son of Chios, born in Sudan.
For my mummy’s naissance in Tehran from a noble
Banker, progeny of the Qajar dynasty originally Turkic,
And his pure blood Persian wife.
My parents met in England where they studied only
To marry and move to pre-revolutionary Iran. I was born
In Rome where they fled, when insurrections began.
Now if someone asks I forcefully respond,
“From planet Earth. A terrestrial little sphere at the heart
Of its star system, on the edge of its galaxy lost
Somewhere in space in the maze of the Universe.
My story is one of many, I labelled us humans.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 1:54 AM UTC
this poem is just about a bakeshop.
no allegories
no symbolisms
no idioms
no metaphors.
mother kneads the dough.
she does it so well.
pounding the white clay
with such masterful effort
her hands do not tire.
neither tires her arms.
neither her thighs tremble.
neither her smile
it charms.
mother had been standing there
untiringly since dawn.
and yet she does not stop.
it has been raining incessantly
ever since she woke up
and yet she does not stop.
not even a single costumer appeared
not a single knock on the door
and yet she does not stop.
daughter asked her out already
daughter asked her to close the shop
daughter always says
and with a lot of sense
watching mother work
simply is not worth
the miniscule sells
yet still she does not stop.
daughter asks mother
far too much.
she asks why mother is always smiling
she asks why mother works hard as such
she asks why mother why it was always raining
daughter asks mother
why no one is waiting at the counter?
daughter then followed
where is brother and father?
and finally daughter asks
why no one, for their shop, would bother?
to which mother just replied
"let us simply pray for better weather"
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 7:04 AM UTC
Dry ice, untiringly erratic, ghetto girls,
Claim they'll "cut you" next time they see you,
Please do.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
Today is World Health Day
It is an opportunity to appreciate
"The role of nurses and midwives
in saving world from corona threat"
They are doing untiringly long
duties without proper rest
Saving the world without
the fear of self infection
Let us applaud their valuable
role with two words of respect
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 8:24 AM UTC